953 


SES  BY  SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT  x^ 

yC-NRLF 


1916 


B    3    571    M7S 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 
^       OF       ^ 


VERSES 


VERSES 

BY 
SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT 

at 


BOSTON 

PRINTED   FOR   HER   FRIENDS 

1916 


D.  B.  UPDIKE  •  THE   MERRYMOUNT   PRESS  •  BOSTON 


To  T.  J.  E. 


^804172 


CONTENTS 

Page 

TO  MY  father:  I  I 

TO  MY  father:  II  3 

ASSURANCE  4 

THE  GLOUCESTER  MOTHER  5 

FLOWERS  IN  THE  DARK  6 

BOAT  SONG  7 

TOP  OF  THE   HILL  9 

AT  HOME  FROM  CHURCH  11 

TOGETHER  13 

A  CAGED  BIRD  14 

STAR  ISLAND  17 

THE  widows'  house  19 

[AT   BETHLEHEM,  PENNSYLVANIA] 

DUNLUCE  CASTLE  21 

DISCONTENT  22 

t 

A  FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER  24 

[V    ] 


PAGE 

A  child's  grave  26 

THE  SPENDTHRIFT  DOLL  29 

THE  LITTLE  DOLL  THAT  LIED  31 

THE  FALLEN  OAK  33 


[Vi] 


VERSES 


TO  MY  FATHER 

I 

WHEN  in  the  quiet  house  I  sat  alone, 
Sometimes  I  heard  your  footfall  drawing  near; 
And  with  a  thrill  of  gladness  open  wide 
I  flung  my  door  to  bid  you  welcome,  dear. 
Sometimes  you  did  not  even  speak  to  me, 
But  left  me  quickly  when  our  eyes  had  met 
And  you  had  kissed  me — ah,  how  tenderly! 
Light  were  the  tasks  the  busy  day  had  set; 
I  had  grown  braver  for  the  sight  of  you; 
Out  of  your  sight  I  was  not  left  alone. 
A  thousand  times  across  the  land  and  sea 
Your  loving  thoughts  straight  to  my  heart  have  flown, 
Returned  from  that  far  country  of  the  stars. 
Again  you  find  me  in  the  quiet  room, — 
Your  angelhood  has  lent  your  love  fleet  wings 
To  make  the  journey  through  the  evening's  gloom. 
How  can  I  miss  you,  though  the  days  are  long 
And  dark  with  sorrow  since  I  saw  you  die, 
Though  like  a  dream  my  changed  life  seems  to  me. 
With  all  its  pleasures  stolen  suddenly  ? 
Who  is  so  alive  as  he  the  world  calls  dead! 
What  heart  so  loving  as  the  heart  that  waits, 

[   ^   ] 


Not  cold  and  still,  but  quick  with  tenderness! 

No  other  hand  will  lead  me  through  the  gates. 

Your  great  sweet  love  is  ever  close  to  me 

To  bring  me  courage,  and  my  soul  to  keep. 

Heaven's  peace  you  bring  who  ever  brought  me  earth's, 

And  some  fair  day  I  too  shall  fall  on  sleep. 


[  2  ] 


TO   MY  FATHER 

II 

I   HEARD  to-day  the  first  sweet  song  of  spring - 
A  blue-bird's  eager  note,  so  faint  and  far, 
Across  the  fields;  and  first  I  was  so  glad. 
I  thought  of  summer,  and  the  flowers  that  are 
Waiting  for  that  glad  day  when  they  can  bloom. 
But  quick  again  my  heart  was  sorrowing: 
It  was  mistaken  in  its  winter's  end. 
I  think  I  never  was  so  grieved  and  sad, 
And  in  my  mind  there  was  no  longer  room 
For  any  thought  but  of  that  dearest  friend 
Who  taught  me  first  the  beauty  of  these  days  — 
To  watch  the  young  leaves  start,  the  birds  return. 
And  how  the  brooks  rush  down  their  rocky  ways, 
The  new  life  everywhere,  the  stars  that  burn 
Bright  in  the  mild,  clear  nights.  Oh!  he  has  gone. 
And  I  must  watch  the  spring  this  year,  alone. 


[  3  ] 


ASSURANCE 

IT  sometimes  happens  that  two  friends  will  meet, 
And  with  a  smile  and  touch  of  hands  again 
Go  on  their  way  along  the  noisy  street. 
Each  is  so  sure  of  all  the  friendship  sweet, 
The  loving  silence  gives  no  thought  of  pain. 
And  so  I  think  those  friends  whom  we  call  dead 
Are  with  us.  It  may  be  some  quiet  hour. 
Or  time  of  busy  work  for  hand  and  head. 
Their  love  fills  all  the  heart  that  missed  them  so. 
They  bring  a  sweet  assurance  of  the  life 
Serene  above  the  worry  that  we  know, 
And  we  are  braver  for  the  comfort  brought. 
Why  should  we  grieve  because  they  do  not  speak 
Our  words  that  lie  so  far  below  their  thought? 


[4] 


THE  GLOUCESTER  MOTHER 

WHEN  autumn  winds  are  high, 
They  wake  and  trouble  me 
With  thoughts  of  people  lost 
A-coming  on  the  coast, 
And  all  the  ships  at  sea. 

How  dark,  how  dark  and  cold 

And  fearful  in  the  waves. 

Are  tired  folk  who  lie  not  still 

And  quiet  in  their  graves 

In  moving  waters  deep 

That  will  not  let  men  sleep 

As  they  may  sleep  on  any  hills. 

May  sleep  ashore  till  time  is  old 

And  all  the  earth  is  frosty  cold. 

Under  the  flowers  a  thousand  springs 

They  sleep  and  dream  of  many  things. 

God  bless  them  all  who  die  at  sea! 
If  they  must  sleep  in  restless  waves, 
God  make  them  dream  they  are  ashore 
With  grass  above  their  graves! 


[  5  ] 


FLOWERS  IN  THE  DARK 

LATE  in  the  evening,  when  the  room  had  grown 
J  Too  hot  and  tiresome  with  its  flaring  light 
And  noise  of  voices,  I  stole  out  alone 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  summer  night. 
Down  the  long  garden-walk  I  slowly  went; 
A  little  wind  was  stirring  in  the  trees; 
I  only  saw  the  whitest  of  the  flowers, 
And  I  was  sorry  that  the  earlier  hours 
Of  that  fair  evening  had  been  so  ill  spent, 
Because,  I  said,  I  am  content  with  these 
Dear  friends  of  mine  who  only  speak  to  me 
With  their  delicious  fragrance,  and  who  tell 
To  me  their  gracious  welcome  silently. 
The  leaves  that  touch  my  hand  with  dew  are  wet; 
I  find  the  tall  white  lilies  I  love  well. 
I  linger  as  I  pass  the  mignonette, 
And  what  surprise  could  dearer  be  than  this: 
To  find  my  sweet  rose  waiting  with  a  kiss! 


[  6  ] 


BOAT  SONG 

OH,  rest  your  oars  and  let  me  drift 
While  all  the  stars  come  out  to  see! 
The  birds  are  talking  in  their  sleep 

As  we  go  by  so  silently. 
The  idle  winds  are  in  the  pines; 

The  ripples  touch  against  the  shore. 
Oh,  rest  your  oars  and  let  me  drift. 
And  let  me  dream  forevermore! 

The  sweet  wild  roses  hear  and  wake, 

And  send  their  fragrance  through  the  air; 
The  hills  are  hiding  in  the  dark. 

There  is  no  hurry  anywhere. 
The  shadows  close  around  the  boat, 

Ah,  why  should  we  go  back  to  shore! 
So  rest  your  oars,  and  we  will  float 

Without  a  care  forevermore. 

Oh,  little  waves  that  plash  and  call. 
How  fast  you  lead  us  out  of  sight! 

And  we  must  follow  where  you  go 

This  strange  and  sweet  midsummer  night; 

[  7  ] 


The  quiet  river  reaches  far  — 

The  darkness  covers  all  the  shore; 

With  idle  oars  we  downward  float 
In  starlight  dim  forevermore. 


[   8   ] 


TOP  OF  THE  HILL 

GREEN  slope  of  autumn  fields, 
And  soft  November  sun, 
And  golden  leaves  —  they  linger  yet, 
While  tasselled  pines  new  fragrance  get, 
Though  summer-time  is  done. 

The  hedge-rows  wear  a  veil 

Of  glistening  spider  threads, 
And  in  the  trees  along  the  brook 
The  clematis,  like  whifFs  of  smoke, 
Its  faded  garland  spreads. 

See,  here  upon  my  hand, 

This  gauzy-winged  wild  bee ! 

Now  that  the  winds  are  laid, 

He  suns  him  unafraid 
Of  winter-time  or  me. 

I  love  the  steepled  town. 

The  river  winding  down. 
The  slow  salt  tide  that  creeps 
Beside  a  shore  that  sleeps. 

Dark  with  its  pine  woods'  crown. 

[9  ] 


Here,  high  above  them  all 

Upon  my  broad-backed  hill, 
Far  from  shrill  voices  I, 
And  near  the  sun  and  sky. 
Can  look  and  take  my  fill. 

I  breathe  the  sweet  air  in, 

While  low^er  drops  the  sun. 
And  brighter  all  too  soon 
Grows  the  pale  hunter's  moon, 
The  whole  year's  fairest  one. 

Oh,  lovely  light  that  fades 
Too  soon  from  sky  and  field. 

Oh,  days  that  are  too  few, 

How  can  I  gather  you. 

Or  treasure  what  you  yield  ! 

Oh,  sunshine,  warm  me  through. 

And,  soft  wind,  blow  away 
My  foolishness,  my  fears. 
And  let  some  golden  years 
Grow  from  this  golden  day! 


AT  HOME  FROM  CHURCH 

THE  lilacs  in  the  sunshine  lift 
Their  plumes  of  dear  old-fashioned  flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  silent  house 
Where,  left  alone,  I  count  the  hours. 

High  in  the  apple-trees  the  bees 

Are  humming,  busy  in  the  sun; 
An  idle  robin  cries  for  rain 

But  once  or  twice,  and  then  is  done. 

The  Sunday  morning  stillness  holds 

In  heavy  slumber  all  the  street, 
While  from  the  church  just  out  of  sight 

Behind  the  elms,  comes  slow  and  sweet 

The  organ's  drone,  the  voices  faint 

That  sing  the  quaint  long-metre  hymn  — 

I  somehow  feel  as  if  shut  out 

From  some  mysterious  temple,  dim 

And  beautiful  with  blue  and  red 

And  golden  lights  from  windows  high, 

[   >•    ] 


Where  angels  in  the  shadows  stand, 
And  earth  seems  very  near  the  sky. 

The  day-dream  fades,  and  so  I  try 
Again  to  catch  the  tune  that  brings 

No  thought  of  temple  or  of  priest, 
But  only  of  a  voice  that  sings. 


[    '^   ] 


TOGETHER 

I  WONDER  if  you  really  send 
These  dreams  of  you  that  come  and  go! 
I  like  to  say,  "She  thought  of  me, 
And  I  have  known  it."  Is  it  so? 

Though  other  friends  are  by  your  side, 
Yet  sometimes  it  must  surely  be 

They  wonder  where  your  thoughts  have  gone- 
Because  I  have  you  here  with  me. 

And  when  the  busy  day  is  done, 
When  work  is  ended,  voices  cease. 

And  everyone  has  said  good-night 
In  fading  twilight,  then,  in  peace. 

Idly  I  rest;  you  come  to  me, 

Your  dear  love  holds  me  close  to  you. 
If  I  could  see  you  face  to  face, 

It  would  not  be  more  sweet  and  true. 

And  now  across  the  weary  miles 

Light  from  my  star  shines.  Is  it,  dear. 

You  never  really  went  away  — 

I  said  farewell,  and  —  kept  you  here? 
[   13   ] 


A  CAGED  BIRD 

HIGH  at  the  window  in  her  cage. 
The  old  canary  sits  and  sings, 
Nor  sees  across  the  curtain  pass 
The  shadow  of  a  swallow's  wings. 

A  poor  deceit  and  copy  this 

Of  larger  lives  that  count  their  span, 
Unreckoning  of  wider  worlds. 

Or  gifts  that  Heaven  keeps  for  man ! 

She  gathers  piteous  bits  and  shreds, 
This  solitary  mateless  thing. 

Patient  to  build  again  the  nest 

So  rudely  scattered  spring  by  spring; 

And  sings  her  brief,  unheeded  songs. 
Her  dreams  of  bird-life  wild  and  free. 

Yet  never  beats  her  prison  bars 

At  sound  of  song  from  bush  or  tree. 

Yet  in  my  busiest  hours  I  pause, 
Held  by  a  sense  of  urgent  speech, 

[   H  ] 


Bewildered  by  that  spark-like  soul 
Able  my  very  soul  to  reach. 

She  will  be  heard;  she  chirps  me  loud 
When  I  forget  those  gravest  cares, 

Her  small  provision  to  supply  — 

Clear  water  or  the  seedsman's  wares. 

She  begs  me  now  for  that  chief  joy 

The  round  great  world  is  made  to  grow — 

Her  wisp  of  greenness.  Hear  her  chide 
Because  my  answering  thought  is  slow! 

What  can  my  life  seem  like  to  her? 

A  dull,  unpunitual  service  mine. 
Stupid  before  her  eager  speech. 

Her  flitting  steps,  her  insight  fine! 

To  open  wide  thy  prison  door. 

Poor  friend,  would  give  thee  to  thy  foes; 
And  yet  a  plaintive  note  I  hear. 

As  if  to  tell  how  slowly  goes 


[  '5  ] 


The  time  of  thy  long  prisoning. 

Bird!  does  some  promise  keep  thee  sane? 
Will  there  be  better  days  for  thee? 

Will  thy  soul  too  know  life  again  ? 

Ah,  none  of  us  have  more  than  this  — 
If  one  true  friend  green  leaves  can  reach 

From  out  some  fairer,  wider  place, 
And  understand  our  wistful  speech! 


[    '6] 


STAR  ISLAND 

HIGH  on  the  lichened  ledges,  like 
A  lonely  sea-fowl  on  its  perch, 
Blown  by  the  cold  sea-winds  it  stands. 
The  quaint,  forsaken  Gosport  church. 

No  sign  is  left  of  all  the  town 

Except  a  few  forgotten  graves; 
But  to  and  fro  the  white  sails  go 

Slowly  across  the  glittering  waves. 

And  summer  idlers  stray  about. 

With  curious  questions  of  the  lost 

And  vanished  village  and  its  men 

Whose  boats  by  these  same  waves  were  tossed. 

I  wonder  if  the  old  church  dreams 

About  its  parish,  and  the  days 
The  fisher-people  came  to  hear 

The  preaching  and  the  songs  of  praise. 

Rough-handed,  browned  with  sun  and  wind. 
Heedless  of  fashion  or  of  creed, 

[   '7  ] 


They  listened  to  the  parson's  words — 
Their  pilot  heavenward  indeed. 

Their  eyes  on  week-days  sought  the  church, 
Their  surest  landmark,  and  the  guide 

That  led  them  home  from  far  at  sea. 
Until  they  anchored  safe  beside. 

The  harbor-wall  still  braves  the  storm 
With  its  resistless  strength  of  stone. 

Now  busy  fishers  all  are  gone. 

The  church  is  standing  here  alone. 

I  know  the  blue  sea  covers  some, 
And  others  in  the  rocky  ground 

Found  narrow  lodgings  for  their  bones. 
God  grant  their  rest  is  sweet  and  sound  ! 

I  saw  the  worn  rope  idle  hang 
Beside  me  in  the  belfry  brown. 

I  gave  the  bell  a  solemn  toll:  — 
I  rang  the  knell  for  Gosport  town. 


[   ^8   ] 


THE  WIDOWS'   HOUSE 

[  AT  BETHLEHEM,  PENNSYLVANIA  ] 

WHAT  of  this  house  with  massive  walls 
And  small-paned  windows,  gay  with 
blooms? 
A  quaint  and  ancient  aspect  falls 

Like  pallid  sunshine  through  the  rooms. 

Not  this  new  country's  rush  and  haste 
Could  breed,  one  thinks,  so  still  a  life; 

Here  is  the  old  Moravian  home, 
A  placid  foe  of  worldly  strife. 

For  this  roof  covers,  night  and  day. 
The  widowed  women  poor  and  old. 

The  mated  without  mates,  who  say 
Their  light  is  out,  their  story  told. 

To  these  the  many  mansions  seem 
Dear  household  fires  that  cannot  die; 

They  wait  through  separation  dark 
An  endless  union  by  and  by. 


[   '9  ] 


Each  window  has  its  watcher  wan 
To  fit  the  autumn  afternoon. 

The  dropping  poplar  leaves,  the  dream 
Of  spring  that  faded  all  too  soon. 

Upon  the  highest  window-ledge 

A  glowing  scarlet  flower  shines  down. 

Oh,  wistful  sisterhood,  whose  home 
Has  san(5lified  this  quiet  town ! 

Oh,  hapless  household,  gather  in 
The  tired-hearted  and  the  lone! 

What  broken  homes,  what  sundered  love, 
What  disappointment  you  have  known! 

They  count  their  little  wealth  of  hope 
And  spend  their  waiting  days  in  peace. 

What  comfort  their  poor  loneliness 
Must  find  in  every  soul's  release! 

And  when  the  wailing  trombones  go 
Alono;  the  street  before  the  dead 

In  that  Moravian  custom  quaint. 
They  smile  because  a  soul  has  fled. 

[   ^o   ] 


DUNLUCE  CASTLE 

TO-DAY  upon  thy  ruined  walls 
The  flowers  wave  flags  of  truce, 
For  time  has  proved  thy  conqueror, 
And  tamed  thy  strength,  Dunluce! 

Marauders  in  their  clankina  mail 

D 

Ride  from  thy  gates  no  more, — 
Lords  of  the  Skerries'  cruel  rocks. 
Masters  of  sea  and  shore. 

Thy  dungeons  are  untenanted. 
Thy  captives  are  set  free; 
The  daisy  with  sweet  childish  face 
Keeps  watch  and  ward  o'er  thee. 


[  -J   ] 


DISCONTENT 

DOWN  in  a  field,  one  day  in  June, 
The  flowers  all  bloomed  together, 
Save  one  who  tried  to  hide  herself. 
And  drooped,  that  pleasant  weather. 

A  robin  who  had  flown  too  high 

And  felt  a  little  lazy 
Was  resting  near  this  buttercup 

Who  wished  she  were  a  daisy. 

The  daisies  grow  so  trig  and  tall, — 

She  always  had  a  passion 
For  wearing  frills  around  her  neck 

In  just  the  daisies'  fashion. 

And  buttercups  must  always  be 
The  same  old  tiresome  color — 

While  daisies  dress  in  gold  and  white. 
Although  their  gold  is  duller. 

•Dear  robin,"  said  this  sad  young  flower, 
"Perhaps  you'd  not  mind  trying 

[  "   ] 


To  find  a  nice  white  frill  for  me 
Some  day  when  you  are  flying." 

"You  silly  thing!"  the  robin  said, 
"I  think  you  must  be  crazy. 
I'd  rather  be  my  honest  self 
Than  any  made-up  daisy. 

"You're  nicer  in  your  own  bright  gown,— 
The  little  children  love  you. 
Be  the  best  buttercup  you  can, 
And  think  no  flower  above  you. 

"Though  swallows  leave  me  out  of  sight. 
We'd  better  keep  our  places; 
Perhaps  the  world  would  all  go  wrong 
With  one  too  many  daisies. 

"Look  bravely  up  into  the  sky 
And  be  content  with  knowing 
That  God  wished  for  a  buttercup 
Just  here,  where  you  are  growing." 


[  23   ] 


A  FOUR-LEAVED   CLOVER 

DEAR  Polly,  these  are  joyful  days! 
Your  feet  can  choose  their  own 
sweet  ways; 
You  have  no  care  of  anything. 
Free  as  a  swallow  on  the  wing, 
You  hunt  the  hayfield  over 
To  find  a  four-leaved  clover. 

But  this  I  tell  you,  Polly  dear, 
One  thing  in  life  you  need  not  fear: 
Bad  luck,  I'm  certain,  never  haunts 
A  child  who  hunts  for  what  she  wants, 
And  hunts  a  hayfield  over 
To  find  a  four-leaved  clover. 

The  little  leaf  is  not  so  wise 

As  it  may  seem  in  foolish  eyes; 

But  then,  dear  Polly,  don't  you  see 

If  you  are  willing  carefully 

To  hunt  the  hayfield  over. 

You  find  your  four-leaved  clover? 


[  24  ] 


Your  patience  may  have  long  to  wait. 
Whether  in  little  things  or  great, 
But  all  good  luck,  you  soon  will  learn. 
Must  come  to  those  who  nobly  earn. 
Who  hunts  the  hayfield  over 
Will  find  the  four-leaved  clover! 

Now  put  it  in  your  dear  trig  shoe  — 

Lovers  by  scores  will  flock  to  you. 

Dear  Polly,  you  will  always  find 

Both  friends  and  fortune  true  and  kind ; 

So  hunt  the  hayfield  over 

And  keep  the  four-leaved  clover! 


[  25  ] 


A  CHILD'S  GRAVE 

MORE  than  a  hundred  years  ago 
They  raised  for  her  this  Httle  stone; 
"Miss  Polly  Townsend,  aged  nine," 
It  says,  is  sleeping  here  alone. 

'T  was  hard  to  leave  your  merry  mates 
For  ranks  of  angels  robed  and  crowned. 

To  sleep  until  the  judgment  day 
In  Copp's  Hill  burying-ground. 

You  must  have  dreaded  heaven  then  — 

A  solemn  doom  of  endless  rest, 
Where  white-winged  seraphs  tuned  their  harps  — 

You  surely  liked  this  life  the  best ! 

The  gray  slate  headstones  frightened  you, 

When  from  Christ  Church  your  father  brought 

You  here  on  Sunday  afternoon. 

And  told  you  that  this  world  was  nought; 

And  you  spelled  out  the  carven  names 
Of  people  who  beneath  the  sod, 

[  26  ] 


Hidden  away  from  mortal  eyes, 
Were  at  the  mercy  of  their  God. 

You  had  been  taught  that  He  was  great  — 
You  only  hoped  He  might  be  good  — 

An  awful  thought  that  you  must  join 
This  silent  neighborhood! 

Did  you  grow  up  to  womanhood 

In  Heaven,  and  did  you  soon  lose  sight, 

Because  you  are  so  happy  there. 
Of  this  world's  troubles  infinite? 

No  one  remembers  now  the  day 

They  buried  you  on  Copp's  Hill-side; 

No  one  remembers  you,  or  grieves 
And  misses  you,  because  you  died. 

I  see  the  grave  and  serious  men 

And  pious  women,  meek  and  mild, 

Walk  two  by  two  in  company. 

The  mourners  for  this  little  child. 


[  27   ] 


The  harbor  glistened  in  the  sun; 

The  bell  in  Christ  Church  steeple  tolled; 
And  all  her  playmates  cried  for  her — 

Miss  Polly  Townsend,  nine  years  old. 


[   ^8   ] 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  DOLL 

AS  I  was  coming  down  the  street, 
^     I  saw  the  saddest  sight; 
Sitting  before  a  candy-shop, 

A  doll  all  dressed  in  white. 
A  Paris  hat  was  on  her  head, 
Her  eyes  were  china  blue, 
And,  looking  down  below  her  gown, 
I  saw  her  pink  kid  shoe. 

Her  veil  thrown  back  showed  me  that  her 

Expression  was  refined; 
Her  carriage-top  was  folded  down, 

Her  sash  was  tied  behind. 
Beside  her  sat  a  shaggy  dog, 

And,  as  I  came  too  near. 
His  growls,  though  not  so  very  loud. 

Were  terrible  to  hear. 

Just  then  the  shop-door  opened  wide 

And  out  two  children  came; 
The  last  one  several  bundles  bore, 

The  first  one  just  the  same. 

[  ^9  ] 


And  some  they  put  behind  the  doll, 

And  some  before  her  lay; 
And  taking  now  the  horse's  place 

They  turned  to  go  away. 

We,  who  are  good,  can't  understand 

Such  very  wicked  ways; 
There  must  have  been  at  least  a  pound 

Of  candy  in  the  chaise! 
The  money  she  so  idly  spends 

She  might  so  wisely  use  — 
Buy  some  poor  doll  a  Sunday  hat, 

Or  week-day  pair  of  shoes; 

To  outgrown  and  old-fashioned  dolls 

She  might  be  such  a  friend  ; 
To  heathen  dolls  in  savage  lands 

Improving  books  might  send. 
'Tis  sad  to  think  that  one  so  small 

Can  be  so  great  in  sin. 
I  fear  my  tears  will  form  a  lake 

And  I  shall  fall  therein! 


[   30] 


THE  LITTLE  DOLL  THAT  LIED 

"TT  THY,  Polly!  What's  the  matter,  dear? 
V  V    You  look  so  very  sad : 
Has  your  new  doll  been  taken  ill? 
It  cannot  be  so  bad!" 
Nine  of  the  dolls  sit  in  a  row, 
But  there  is  one  beside — 
See  in  the  corner,  upside-down, 
The  little  doll  that  lied ! 


Out  in  the  corner,  all  alone. 

The  wicked  doll  must  stay! 

None  of  the  rest  must  speak  to  her. 

Or  look  there  while  they  play. 

All  her  best  clothes,  except  her  boots, 

Are  safely  put  aside 

(Her  boots  are  painted  on  her  feet)  — 

The  little  doll  that  lied! 

Oh,  lying's  such  a  naughty  thing! 
Why,  she  might  swear  and  steal. 
Or  murder  someone,  I  dare  say; 
Just  think  how  we  should  feel 

[  31   ] 


To  have  her  in  a  prison  live, 
Or,  worse  than  that, be  hung! 
What  won't  she  do  when  she  is  old, 
If  she  did  this  so  young? 

And  now  the  silver  mug  and  spoon 

Come  into  use  again. 

And  down  the  faces  of  the  dolls 

The  tears  run  fast  as  rain. 

Three  have  tipped  over  in  their  grief, 

Their  tears  cannot  be  dried; 

Their  handkerchiefs  are  dripping  wet- 

The  little  doll  has  lied! 


[  32  ] 


THE  FALLEN  OAK 


WHERE  the  oak  fell,  a  great  road  leads  away, 
Across  the  country  to  the  door  of  day, 
To  find  no  ending  where  the  sky  begins:  — 
What  the  oak  knew  our  larger  outlook  wins. 


[  33  ] 


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